


But still I find you there

by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Gen, Memory Loss, Post-Canon, Retrograde Amnesia, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15534762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: At first, he doesn’t understand but he's already moving, pushing through the crowd. He doesn’t know if he can get close to the android fast enough, but a recklessness drives him forward, the crowd parting much more difficultly. The closer he gets, and the denser the android surveyors become. Hank sees Connor raise the gun to his chin, pressing into the underside of his jaw, and the ground drops away beneath his feet abruptly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still riding the Detroit train and loving it. It's incredibly liberating to sit down and throw down ideas - interesting, rubbish, or straight up weird. Anything I can coax into becoming a full-fledged work is the world I'm living in. This idea came from my last playthrough (and slightly earlier when I found screencaps) when Connor tries to commit suicide following Amanda's hacking attempt: What if Hank intervened? I wrote the first part and liked it enough to extend it, then we wind up in a hospital. The train kept chugging along from there, and from the story tags, you probably have a sense of what this fic is going to deal with. Most of it is unpolished and partially unedited (no beta here; I write and share at will - I will sweep through and clean up errors) and I've separated it into seven parts to publish over seven days. I'm a little... uncertain about one route the story does take later on and I'll address it when we're there, but for now... I hope it's worth reading. It took me about a week to write while at home or on lunch breaks at work, and I simply scratched down ideas as they came. Title is from Imagine Dragons - Next to Me (cause it's pretty damn perfect).
> 
> In terms of the relationship: I'm not entirely sure what sort of relationship can be translated from the interactions between Connor and Hank. It borders more on the side of platonic but there's enough hints in there to read into it as more. So, it will possibly suit either preference for those on the fence or not.

Hank leans against the front fender of his old rusty car, arms folded across his chest as he watches Connor climb up onto the podium. It's snowing softly, the flakes large but heavy, drifting from a grey dawning sky. Hank's near enough to see the kid is overwhelmed by the mass of audience members, all gazing up at him in adoration and hope. The deviant hunter turned deviant leader, all within a matter of hours. Pretty damn incredible, if you ask him.

A small smile tugs the corner of the police lieutenant's mouth; the kid's grown on him, the insufferable poodle, and he likes Connor a hell of a lot more than he'll ever let on.

Hank would never hear the end of it – from the deviant himself or anyone within a one-hundred-mile radius.

At one point or another, Hank hadn’t thought Connor would be up for the job. He'd failed nearly half a dozen times, either plummeting to his death from a ledge or taking a bullet through the frontal cerebrum. It hadn’t been until the night they visited the Eden Club and Connor refused to shoot the Tracis that he knew something was up about the android. Hank went as far as confronting the kid about it, too, until he wasn’t sure if he was holding the muzzle of his revolver to the head of an unfeeling machine or, in fact, a living human being.

Hank has seen the blue blood and exposed biocomponents enough to know Connor isn't flesh and bone, but something in those frightened brown eyes made him hesitate – and keep questioning – drawing out the inevitable until he realized he couldn’t do it.

Connor was designed to replicate a human's traits to the letter, from adopting mannerisms to adapting his personality for the superior he served under. Several times, Hank had noticed the android's quiet reference to many points in Hank's shared opinions, and the subtle changes in his way of regarding their investigation to include Hank, rather than eliminate the lieutenant's or thoughts. It made adapting to the android's presence far easier than he'd ever imagined possible. He moved differently, spoke a little less analytically, and tended to approach the lieutenant with a direct but easygoing attitude. Not to mention being quick to use simpler phrases regarding technological mumbo jumbo they were dealing with on a daily basis. Connor gradually became more considerate and in turn, Hank began to not only respect the android's presence, but enjoy it.

Even in all his failures, starting with his death in the interrogation room to being crushed on the highway chasing a deviant AX400, Connor retained one sole factor with every return at life – a focus marvelling any officer Hank had ever had the fortune of working alongside. Continuing unerringly in how he approached crime scenes and investigations, Hank felt rejuvanized by the spry, young detective and couldn’t help but _want_ to push himself a little harder, think a little stronger. It was like the last three years were a distant shadow, on the good days, when Connor was there dragging him along after another lead.

Damn poodle.

Hank can't help but feel protective of the kid. Realistically, he is only a few months old, stretching his wings for the first time and learning to live. And watching him grapple with his emotions and consistantly deny he was as human as his partner was a fallen wreck… it is the hardest lie Hank has ever seen someone try to sell.

Connor is, through and through, human in nearly all regards, and finally broke through those barriers to take ownership of not just his life, but now the lives of thousands waiting for his guidance, his leadership, into a new era for androids and humankind.

And Hank is proud, really proud.

Until he sees the gun.

At first, he doesn’t understand but he's already moving, pushing through the crowd. He doesn’t know if he can get close to the android fast enough, but a recklessness drives him forward, the crowd parting much more difficultly. The closer he gets, and the denser the android surveyors become. Hank sees Connor raise the gun to his chin, pressing into the underside of his jaw, and the ground drops away beneath his feet abruptly.

Every night at the kitchen table holding the gun to his own temple, every morning coming in from the bar at 4:00am, hung over and looking in the mirror at his dishevelled face and unkempt appearance – it all rushes forward sickeningly.

“Connor!” he shouts over the voices rising around him. “Connor, no!”

Connor's eyes latch onto Hank in the crowd. His LED is as red as blood. There's nothing but grim certainty written across his face.

And fear.

Hank's not close enough to save him. He won't be able to stop the kid from taking his fucking life. _He can’t save him._

He unholsters his revolver and, pointing it at Connor with a desperate prayer, pulls the trigger.

 

 

**BIOCOMPONENT #9782f DAMAGED**

 

The hospital room is sterile, white walls and smooth tile floors, occupied by small cupboards and machinery. It’s a far cry from the primitive technology of the early twenty-first century; everything is far much more advanced and accurate, and more humans have walked in with fatal injuries and illnesses only to walk out with a greater chance at living than ever before.

There is a nurse checking the vitals when the RK800 android arrives, matching percentages on her tablet. She is human, aged in her early forties, dark red hair neatly pinned back. Crinkles form around her eyes at the visitor, and she smiles.

“Third time today,” she comments kindly. “Why don’t you sit with him for a while?”

Connor sits beside the hospital bed, gently taking Hank's hand between his own. An intravenous tube is taped across the back of the large hand, fingers twitching occasionally. A breathing tube is inserted down the lieutenant's throat, and machines monitoring his heart and brain functions beep quietly. His heart rate is a pulsing line of blue on a black screen, stable and controlled, and his chest rises and falls gently, the machine hissing as it pushes air into his lungs.

“Has there been any changes?” Connor asks softly. The nurse shakes her head solemnly, tapping out a note on her tablet.

“The injuries were too severe,” she explains. “Traumatic brain damage and internal hemorrhaging caused Lieutenant Anderson to enter a comatose state. It could be weeks, or even months, before he emerges.”

The nurse glances at Connor's distant expression. “I know it's not my place to ask, but can you tell me what happened? Was it the deviant androids who did this?”

It's easy to assume the androids are at fault. Humans defending their own kind, and vise versa. It's as natural as the turn of the earth. Connor isn’t surprised by the nurse's query, especially when he – and android and a deviant – is the one showing up at Hank's bedside. Of course she's going to judge, but the sympathy in her eyes is real.

“I…” Connor swallows. He remembers, so vividly, Hank fighting his way through the crowd, trying to reach him. He remembers the bullet imbedding the ventricle feeding Thirium from his heart to his biocomponents. He remembers the androids turning against the human, beating him to the ground, and Hank refusing to fight back.

Connor knows why Hank shot him. He'd meant to disable him, nothing more, but the shot had been too precise, too centered on the heart. The damage hadn't been severe enough to outright kill him, but it had stopped him from destroying himself.

And it had also prevented Amanda from situating herself as a host in an inoperable body. It had been quick thinking and pure luck, and a minor repair and restart later, Connor was fine.

But Hank...

Connor shakes his head. “He was attacked. I couldn’t reach him in time,” he says shortly. There's nothing else to share the nurse doesn’t need to know.

The gentle hand on his shoulder was enough to bring him to the edge of tears. “You'll get through this, both of you will,” she assures firmly. “Don’t give up on him.”

Connor smiles. “I never could.”

She checks the vitals again, then leaves them alone.

Connor reaches out, gently smoothing an askew strand of grey hair, and is surprised to find it to be soft. He runs his fingers through it, sensors absorbing the feel of the fine hairs, and catches on a tangle. He eases it out, being careful not to tug too hard.

“It's my fault, Lieutenant,” Connor whispers. “If I had been more cautious, if I had seen what Amanda intended…”

He doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if he had shot himself. He also doesn’t want to think of what Amanda could have done.

Connor stays another few minutes, reassuring himself with every heartbeat, every inhale, that Hank will be alright.

He comes to see him every day, for six weeks without reservation or delay, and waits.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Hank sees gauzy white curtains fluttering in a warm spring breeze, rain and fresh-cut flowers washing over the antiseptic smell of the hospital. He chokes a little on the plastic tube down his throat, forcing air into his lungs when he’s perfectly capable of breathing on his own. He starts to reach up with the intent to pull it out when a slender but strong hand closes over his.

A man in his late twenties at the most is in the chair alongside him, pale skin dappled in tiny birthmarks across his cheeks and forehead, soft lips and warm brown eyes under a sweep of thick brown hair raked back from his face, though a corner strand insists on hanging over his forehead. He wears a loose black tshirt and jeans, a lightweight brown jacket over top of the quiet ensemble. He has no identifying marks - no ring, no scars, nothing.

Nothing except those big brown eyes.

“Hank, can you hear me?” the man asks gently. He has a faint Michigan accent and a slightly mechanicalized way of speaking, his pronunciation smooth and clear. Hank's eyes flutter over him, brow creasing. He doesn’t recognize him in the slightest.

“My name is Connor,” he tilts his head to the side, surveying any reaction, before adding, “We're partners.”

Hank is stunned. When did he get into a relationship with a man at least _half_ his age, let alone one he can't remember?

And then he sees it, the ring of light on the stranger's right temple. An LED.

_It’s a fucking android._

Hank's eyes widen in alarm, and a rasping noise funnels through the air machine. He struggles, writhing away as far as he can get, but he's restrained. Fuck, _fuck!_ He can't move!

The android is on its feet, the glowing ring a startling red. It touches him, trying to keep him from falling off bed and strangling himself on the tubes – or maybe it’s trying to kill him, fuck if he knows – so Hank reacts the only way he knows how to deal with these plastic bastards.

He seized the android's hand, shoves himself upright, and grapples for its throat; Hank has no idea whether he can strangle an android to death but he'll damn well try. The skin is smooth, too similar to a human's, but an unyielding rigidity under the outer layer is hard. He squeezes, alarmed at the lack of a reaction, chest heaving in panic.

The skin beneath his fingers blossoms white, and the android grunts a little. The LED is red but it has stopped moving entirely, gaze fixed steadily on Hank's.

The hospital room's door flies open and the nurses are pulling the android away. It goes without a fight, but Hank can't erase the vision of those coffee-brown eyes, or why he thinks they're so familiar.

 

“Retrograde amnesia,” the doctors diagnose after probing the lieutenant's memory on recent events. “Anything from the past six months has been erased from his memory. There's no guarantee he'll remember anytime soon, or at all.”

“Can I see him?” Connor requests quietly. He has a small wrapped package in his hands and hopes it will bring the lieutenant around to trusting him. It hadn’t been easy to get a copy of, seeing as being reset post-repairs and having his memory reinstalled prevented access. It was the android he'd interacted with he needed a visual confirmation of, and finding it without identification was impossible.

But Fowler had access. Anything recorded during crime scenes, or in general, was stored on drives for police use. It had taken promising to work a case with Detective Reed later this evening to have a copy of what he needs. Hard won, but Connor hopes it will be worth it. He can handle Gavin for one night.

The hospital room is the same, dim with evening light streaming through the window, and Hank is sitting upright in bed with his head turned away at his entry. The lieutenant looks around as the door clicks shut, and Connor detects an immediate increase in stress levels and heart rate the second he sees him.

“The fuck do you want?” Hank asks hoarsely. Connor lifts the package with a meek smile.

“I brought you something. I thought it would help.”

“Why would I want help from a plastic asshole like you?” Hank rasps angrily, reaching for the cup of water beside his bed. But too quickly; his fingers collide with the smooth paper and it hits the floor. Water sloshes across the tile.

Connor approaches slowly, setting the package on the table and retrieving the cup. He can feel the eyes of the lieutenant on the back of his head. Keeping his eyes averted, Connor refills the cup and hands it to Hank wordlessly.

The lieutenant doesn’t drink, but turns it slowly in his hand, watching the android consideringly. “Partners, hmmm?” he asks. Connor thinks he detects a hint of coy lingering just under the flat, gravelly tone.

“Yes. I was the android sent to assist in handling the deviancy case. Captain Fowler assigned me to you,” Connor dares a tiny smile. “Our first case was the murder of Carlos Ortiz.”

Hank studies him shrewdly. “I don’t know anything about these deviancy cases, but the news says differently. Docs say I’ve forgotten the last half a year,” he sighs. “Anything I should know?”

“Sumo is in good health. I’ve looked after your house while you’ve been hospitalized,” he answers. “I… I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been sleeping on your couch. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“A homeless android?” Hank sneers. “All of the bullshit about peace and equality never happened, eh?”

Connor doesn’t know how to answer that, so he looks away, picking up the package and handing it to Hank. The lieutenant glares at it like it’s a timed bomb.

“Open it,” Connor prompts.

Hank does, albeit very warily, sliding the small wooden box loose of the paper. He lifts it open and his breath hitches.

Laid on top is a framed photo, an old-fashioned picture instead of a digitalized one, and in it are two people. The first is of one Lieutenant Anderson, face split into a genuine grin, and his arm is slung around the shoulders of a young man with dark hair and happy brown eyes, wearing a two-tone grey suit jacket marked with a model and serial number. The photo is dated November the eleventh and, in the background glows the indicators and LEDs of many, many androids.

It was captured the moment Connor and Hank stepped outside with the freed androids from CyberLife Tower. An AP700 had turned their way to thank them.

“Thank the kid, he's the hero his time,” Hank had laughed, pulling Connor into a one-armed hug against his side. The android felt the tips of his ears turn blue in embarrassment… and pride.

Hank is staring at the photograph wordlessly. Connor can see a hundred unasked questions all over his face. He notices the android watching and sets it down, and his movements cause the box to rattle. He reaches in and withdraws a small object. The lieutenant clearly recognizes the bullet from the chamber of a .357 Magnum revolver – his revolver.

“You saved my life,” Connor explains. “If you hadn’t stopped me, I wouldn’t be here.” Hank is confused, even a little frightened.

“Connor. Is that your name?” Hank asks nervously. The android nods.

“I… I shot you?”

“I was going to… to shoot myself. She… CyberLife tried to hack me,” Connor feels tense. “You couldn’t reach me in time so you stopped me the only way you _could_. The deviants thought you were trying to murder me.”

“…and they attacked.”

Connor nods.

Hank's hand curls around the bullet and she shakes his head. “I don’t remember any of this,” he admits slowly. “But everything I’ve been told or seen on the news… it all adds up.”

“You believe me?” Connor dares to hope, but Hank shuts him down with a glare.

“Listen, kid. I don’t believe anything right now with this shit I'm going through, so keep those puppy dog eyes at a minimum, got it?” he snaps coarsely.

Connor's mouth quirks, unable to hide his smile, and Hank sees it. The lieutenant snorts, returning the items to the box and closing it. “Now if you don’t mind, I gotta sleep. My head's killing me.”

“Do you need medical assist-"

“What I _need_ is for you to fuck off.” Hank drops his head back into the pillow. “Let an old man rest, would you?”

Connor leaves without another word, but can't help but overhear a softly muttered, “Jesus, and we were partners? I must've been drunker than usual.”

 

 

Fowler is in a dour mood when Connor arrives at the precinct, thumbing through the newest report of a homicide with a frown deepening by the second the further he gets through the increasingly distressing detail.

Connor finds Gavin waiting at his desk, one hip leaning against the side with his arms folded. The detective looks just as displeased as Connor feels, but an ugly sneer curls his lip when the android approaches. “Detective Reed,” Connor greets guardedly. “I’m sorry for keep-"

“Keeping me waiting all fuckin' morning, tin can,” Gavin straightens, shoving past and leading the way into the office.

Fowler is already addressing him before he's halfway through the door. “We've got a triple homicide, two of our officers are down, and both the wife and family's android are missing. Captain Allen is on standby with SWAT. It looks like a hostage situation.” Fowler looks at Gavin. “Reed is coming with you.”

Gavin snickers. “I’m sorry, did I hear right?” he drawls pateonizingly. “I'm not going _anywhere_ with this tin can.”

Fowler's glare becomes steely. “Put a cork in it, Gavin. You’re going with Connor. End of discussion.” He glances at Connor. “How's Hank?”

“He's going to be alright,” Connor says assuredly, though it's a complete lie. He doesn’t know if Hank _will_ last the night. He decides it's better to withhold that information.

“What makes this plastic prick even capable of handling a hostage situation?” Gavin jeers, jabbing a thumb his way.

“Connor successfully handled a hostage situation back last August,” Fowler answers. “Captain Allen _asked_ for him.”

Connor tenses, the weight of the situation dawning on him. He wasn’t a deviant last time and, worse still, it had taken shoving Daniel off the roof to turn the tide. If he dies this time, there is no coming back.

It’s different now because before, he didn’t fear death, or sacrifice. He didn’t have a life to value, and now he _does_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone for the amazing feedback! I'll be posting one chapter daily ;)

It's nighttime when Connor and Gavin arrive, and the little residence is lit up with the red and blue lights of half a dozen police cars, an ambulance, and the SWAT vans. Gavin cracks his knuckles, peering through the windshield at the scene, and turns to Connor.

“You ready for this, toaster?”

If Connor was human, he'd be paler than a sheet of paper. His hands are fisted into clenched balls in his lap, his biocomponents running at a higher rate than normal as he considers the possibilities of how tonight will end.

_Stay calm, kid. You’ll do fine._

“Let's just get this over with,” he mutters to the detective, unbuckling his seatbelt and exiting the car. A light rainfall dampens his hair and jacket as he crosses the street to where Captain Allen is in the back of the surveillance van. He looks up at Gavin's knock on the metal door.

“Connor, Detective Reed, ‘bout time you got here.” He brings them into the van. On the monitors, Connor can already see flickering images of the crime scene unfolding, tinted green from night vision where the house's interior lights aren't strong enough. One camera can see down a set of stairs into the basement, but not much else. No sign of a hostage, but there's no way to know she isn’t in there.

“The hostile is the family android, and is holding Watts in the basement; heat signatures confirm it.”

“What's the android's motivation?” Connor asks.

“Won't know until you’re in there,” Captain Allen answers. “I’m pulling everyone out to avoid alerting the android to your presence. I want you and Reed on wires.”

“It would be safer for Detective Reed to remain here,” Connor objects quickly, ignoring Gavin's livid glower. “It would be beneficial to the mission if I don’t have to consider his safety as well as handle the hostage situation.”

“I’m under orders to not send you in there alone,” Captain Allen interrupts Gavin as the detective begins to fume, surprising them both. Orders? “Gavin, you're to watch Connor's back in there. If the hostile becomes too much of a threat, pull him out, no excuses.”

Connor wonders if Fowler gave the order.

Time is limited, but there's just enough to hook up wires (Connor synchronizes his audio and vocal modulators directly to Gavin's wire to save time) and they both donn bulletproof vests.

Lastly, Captain Allen presses a spare sidearm into Connor's hand, but says nothing of it. He tucks it into the waistband of his jeans wordlessly.

Connor had used Officer Deckart’s gun as a bargaining tool to gain Daniel's trust. Captain Allen obviously wants the same results, and surmises some laws need to be broken to get the job done.

Gavin is beside him, staring at the house with a faint frown, and Connor _hopes_ he'll have his back if things take an unexpected turn in there.

 

 

Gavin can’t see shit in the darkened interior of the house. He can smell the cleaner used for washing the floors and the tang of spilled blood so thick he can taste the metal on his tongue. The only visible _thing_ is Connor's glowing indicators, the blue triangles floating around the kitchen and living room as he quickly analyzes the scene on nearly silent feet. Even the usual tap of his dress shoes is muted. It's eerie.

“It started in the kitchen. The blood sample on the counter is the oldest,” the android whispers. “The blood belongs to the oldest son, William. The android attacked the son and the father stepped in, only to be stabbed to death in the stomach and the heart.”

Gavin follows Connor as they follow the invisible blood trail down the hallway. “The sons went through the living room. The youngest tripped here, hitting his head on the table,” Connor kneels, and comes up with a shattered vase, the ends wet with blue blood. “The oldest hit the android and continued to the bathroom, where they were cornered.”

Gavin can see the smears of blood all over the floor and shower wall. He looks away, stomach churning, at the glimpse of a slender arm thrown out across the floor. He must have made a sound because the android looks at him sharply.

If Connor sees his distress, he doesn’t mention it.

“Okay, smart ass, what's next?” Gavin asks to hide his discomfort. Connor suddenly seizes the front of his vest and pulls him into the bathroom, pushing him up against the wall and with a hand clamped over his mouth. The detective is about to bite when faint footsteps alert him to the presence of someone nearby.

He can see Connor's LED glowing solid red. The footsteps continue through the house, headed into the living room.

The hostile's left the basement, giving them a chance to get in there and find Watts.

Connor is on the same page and is leading the way, moving quickly, taking the stairs two at a time in his eagerness. The basement is pitch black and Gavin is blind, the blue triangles his only source of light, and by default he remains close.

“Helen,” Connor calls softly.

A muffled whimper reaches Gavin's ears, no more than ten feet to the right, and he follows it, reaching out blindly. His fingers hit cloth and he grips, finding soft muscle and hard bone underneath. Helen Watts.

“Detroit Police, we’re here to rescue you,” Gavin murmurs. A soft sob of relief, and he’s untying the binds around her ankles and wrists.

Something hard smashes into the side of Gavin's skull and he crashes to the floor, reeling. He tastes blood from biting his tongue. The basement lights flick on, making his optic nerves burn briefly, and he finds Watts towering over him with a crowbar in her hand.

Connor is in the corner, an android holding him secure, one hand poised to tear out his Thirium pump regulator. There's blue blood on its head, the cut the size of a broken vase's edge, and crimson all over its hands and arms.

_Fuckin’ shit, seriously?!_

“You shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in this,” Watts says. “Humans have no place in a world where they can't accept change. They created androids in _our_ image and treat them like slaves.”

“Did that include murdering your entire family?” Gavin throws back. His head is ringing, blood sticky on the side of his face from where it's dropped from the gash in his scalp.

“I never liked Austin, right from the day they first met in senior year. He always wanted something from her – sex, money, anything he could convince her to hand over. She did it _without_ _question_ ,” she looks disgusted and miserable from the memory. “I loved my sister. I’m doing her a _favour_.”

Ellen and Helen, twin girls, perfectly identical. The only difference is Ellie's meant to be dead.

“You've been pretending to be Helen for two years,” Connor says from behind Gavin.

“The car went off the roadside and flipped over in the ditch. It was full of water with the spring floods,” Watts swallows hard, tears prickling in her eyes. “I made it out but she didn’t. I couldn’t get to her in time. So, I switched our identities, lived in her shoes, for her kids.”

“Only to _murder_ them?” Gavin says, incredulous.

Watts' cheeks are wet. “I didn’t _mean_ for them to be involved. It wasn’t meant to go like that. I can never undo what I’ve caused to happen,” she breathes deeply to center herself, “but her bastard of a husband is _gone_. I saw him, beating androids on the street, supporting the FBI’s attack. He _laughed_ when the androids were rounded up in trucks and taken to be slaughtered! I tried to help and _free_ them!” she cries. “I did what was right!”

“It doesn't matter what you tried to do. You’ve taken your sister's memory and tarnished it! You’ve murdered _children!”_ Connor yells, struggling to pull free, the anger in his voice enough to make even Gavin surprised. “Do you think she would ever forgive you? Her _children_ are dead because of _you!”_

Watts shrugs, calm assurance in her pale green eyes, and Gavin feels a cold touch against his spine at the monster standing before them. “I can't change that. I don’t care what happens to me now.”

She starts forward, half lifting the crowbar to finish what she's started, when the gunshots startle all of them.

Watts slumps to the ground, red stains blossoming in her shoulder and side. Simultaneously, the android holding Connor jerks as a bullet pierces the front of its skull, blue blood leaking down its nose, and Connor pulls free as it falls to its knees.

Captain Allen stands in the doorway, unable to hide the disturbed shadow passing over his face. Gavin clambers to his feet, swaying lightly, dizzy and thoroughly revolted.

The sweet taste of victory is soured and bitter as innocent blood.

 

 

The bar is small and a little on the sleazy side, but the patrons are regulars, most with criminal records. Neon pink lights glow in the large windows. The smell of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, and the floors are dark with grime. It’s a cesspool of trouble, unless you're good at avoiding it.

The beer sits untouched on the table in front of Gavin, and Connor sits stiller than stone across from him, eyes out the window. The android looks lost in thought, considering the downturn of his mouth and troubled brown eyes. The LED faces Gavin, turning ‘round and ‘round, bright yellow.

“Thinking about the case?” Gavin asks.

“Yes,” Connor answers simply. “She let those children die to achieve her own goals. She… she was their mother for _two_ _years_ , Gavin.”

“Some psychos out there are real fucked in the head, Connor,” Gavin shrugs one shoulder, trying to remain indifferent. No use getting anymore worked up over it. “It's our job to stop them, not understand them.”

The android clearly isn’t listening. Gavin drinks a mouthful of the beer and leans forward. “If Hank stood between you and completing a mission, what would you do?”

Connor looks _horrified_ at what the detective is implying. Gavin gestured casually, point made. “There, see? You'd never let Hank die. Ellen Watts wanted to do eveything to protect her sister, and killing her husband was the way she decided to do it. It didn’t matter what was in the way, or what choices she made, she made it her priority.”

Connor doesn't speak, but his LED is spinning red.

“We've got her locked up and she'll stand trial. If she doesn’t end up on death row, she’ll at least be put away for life. No one will want a child-killer on the streets.”

Gavin doesn’t expect Connor to answer, and he doesn’t continue. He finishes his beer and starts to leave, but turns back and offers Connor an awkward smile.

“Tell Hank hi from me when you see him, okay?” he says nervously. Connor's gaze softens a little, and Gavin suddenly feels stupid. He went and made it weird.

“Don’t be late for work tomorrow, tin can, or I’ll break your jaw,” he says gruffly, ignoring the small smile behind him as he leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst part about memory loss? When they aren't the same person you remember they are. It's even better when there are trust issues and misunderstandings involved. The second half of this chapter is the part of the story I mentioned in the first note I was a little iffy about leaving in, but I've decided to not change it.

Hank is released from the hospital after another week under the conditions someone will be available twenty-four hours a day to provide emergency care.

Sumo is a bundle of enthusiastic whimpering joy the moment Hank is in the door, rolling onto his back for belly rubs and trying to climb up into his owner's arms at the same time. Connor helps him to the couch – he _hates_ admitting he needs the android's help for less than ten feet without falling over – and sinks down to give poor Sumo the attention he needs before the dog has an aneurism. Connor disappears into the kitchen, refilling Sumo's food and water bowls, before returning with the leash.

“I'll take him out for a few minutes,” he says as he clips on the leash, ruffling the St. Bernard's soft ears. “You stay here.”

“Where else would I go?” Hank asks Connor's back as he disappears out the door. He sighs, and lets his eyes mull over what he can see of his home. Spying a magazine on the coffee table, he picks it up, activating it to find none other than Connor staring out from the digital cover.

Only this one's eyes are pale, a white-blue resembling nothing of the coffee-warm set belonging to the android he came home with.

 _RK900: Detroit's New Defender_ the magazine declares in bold black print. _200,000 units now serving the state department after deviant crisis forces hundreds to flee the city._

Hank sets it down, frowning, and turns on the TV. It's a recap of the last baseball game, and he switches to the news.

“…husband and two sons found dead in their home at the mercy of the family's android. Ellen Watts, thirty-eight, is the twin sister of Helen Watts, who died two springs ago after her vehicle rolled into a ditch and submerged the car in water. Watts proceeded to switch identities with her deceased sister. An official report from authorities was released by Detroit Police Department’s Captain Jeffery Fowler, supported with recorded evidence from the RK800 android unit assigned to the case. Watts is confirmed to stand trial on Wednesday later this week.”

“Fucking great,” Hank mutters. “If it isn’t people killing people, it’s androids and people killing other people. Jesus Christ.”

He deliberately ignores the mention of the deceased children.

The next news story was something about how the government was dealing with the proposal of android liberation coming into effect, and how androids still serve as an undeniable threat to humans. Hank listens for a couple of minutes before he switches the TV off. He glances at the kitchen, biting his lip.

It takes longer than he will ever admit to get off the couch, and waddles unceremoniously into the kitchen. The floors are polished, same with the countertops, and every appliance has been washed or disinfected and sparkles like new. Hank cracks open the cupboard where he keeps his whiskey and finds it stark empty. Glasses included. Fuck.

The fridge, on the other hand, is packed full of stuff Hank didn’t even know the names of. A jug of what looks like lemonade occupies the top shelf with half-and-half cream, a carton of milk, and a bottle of orange juice. All fresh dates. The next shelf is stocked with vegetables and fruit – carrots, cucumbers, grapes, plums, a head of lettuce, red onions… more than Hank ever used to have in there. It's half the grocery store!

The bottom shelf has what looks like chicken breasts, in a large plastic bag, seasoned and marinating, with sliced potatoes in another in the same fashion. Hank stares for a long time, eerily reminded of how the fridge looked about four years ago now, and closes it carefully.

On the back of the door is a picture he hadn't noticed. It's one of Cole playing in the side yard with Sumo on a summer day, the boy trying to pull away the tug toy Sumo's got caught firmly in his teeth. The photo used to reside in the bottom of a drawer, forcibly forgotten. Now it's here, staring him in the face like sunshine, and his eyes sting with tears.

 _Six months lost_ , he remembers. His life has been set back by six entire months, nothing he can remember but suddenly – desperately – everything he needs. He wants to know. _He_ _wants to_ _know_.

The door squeaks open and Sumo's claws click as he pads into the kitchen, pushing his wet nose into Hank's palm. Connor stands by the door, LED flickering nervously, uncertain if he's welcome.

Hank sighs deeply, looking down at his dog. Safe and happy, because the android looked after him. His home, well-maintained and clean, because the android went out of his way to do so.

And he, looked after and cared for, because the android wants to. Hank feels a heavy stone settle in his gut. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t _deserve_ any of this. He _hates_ androids, he can feel the fire burning whenever he sees the glowing LED.

He hates androids, so why is this one so adamant on being here with him?

“Hank, are you alright?” Connor cuts into his thoughts, dark eyes worried. “Is there something I've done wrong? If it's the photograph, I’ll put it back. It wasn’t my intent to upset-"

“Why are you doing all this?” Hank interrupts. Connor looks absolutely _mystified_ by the question. “Cleaning my house, filling my fridge – hell, I suspect paying the bills on top of it.”

“Because…” Connor stammers, genuinely taken aback. “You were in the hospital. No one else was here and… and I wanted to.”

“You're not a maidservant. You're a police detective, an interrogator,” Hank bristles at the idea of _forcing_ an android to pick up after him. Too close to slavery.

Connor looks devastated. “I’m sorry, Hank. I… I just wanted you to come home and not have to worry about anything. Isn’t that what partners are for?”

“Yeah, in the _force_ , not our daily lives,” Hank says with a strong sarcastic edge. “Jesus, kid, you’re here to just… keep an eye on me, make sure I don’t have a heart attack or whatever the doctors said. I can handle the rest.”

Connor nods wordlessly, depositing Sumo's leash in a basket of chew toys and tennis balls, pats the St. Bernard's head, and smiles up at the lieutenant. “Can I at least make you dinner?”

It's almost an effort to keep from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” he relents. “If it gets you off my back for a couple of hours. Kitchen's all yours.”

He couldn’t have said no to those puppy dog eyes anyways.

And he doesn’t mean Sumo's.

 

 

Two and a half hours later, one plate is being washed in the sink and the other half of a salad is being wrapped up and stowed in the fridge for safekeeping. Hank rests his forearms on the table, eyes on Connor's back as the android scrubs the baking dish. “Easier to soak it for half an hour,” Hank suggests mid-yawn. “You'll just work yourself up into a sweat doing that.”

“Androids don't sweat, Lieutenant,” Connor answers, not backing down from the task. “We are incapable of many human functions.”

“The back of your neck is shiny,” Hank points out.

“That would be the expel of heat through the micro pores located beneath my hairline,” Connor grunts softly as he drops the dish into the sink, wet fingers slippery. “It contains traces of Thirium and coolant – entirely safe for human consumption.”

“What is Th – wait, _what?”_ Hank lets that register again. “ _Consumption?_ What the hell would anyone be _licking_ it for?”

Connor's glance over his shoulder is full of mirth. “I could ask you the same question, Lieutenant.”

It suddenly occurs to Hank he barely knows anything about the android washing the dishes, or their relationship in general. Connor's said they are partners… at work. But was he half-honest in his admittance of their acquaintance to one another?

Hank was _told_ he shot Connor to save his life, a final decision to prevent him from taking his own. It took not only a lot of hard choice but a massive amount of trust to do something like that. If it were any of his fellow officers or, hell, even Gavin – would Hank do it for them? Shoot them to save them? The bullet is the proof, shot from his own revolver, so there is no denying he had done it.

No, Hank already knows he wouldn’t.

Unless everything is one massive, terrifying lie. Hank's mind is quick to build a scenario of Connor attacking him, beating him half to death, with he managing to shoot the android, disabling it long enough to get away. It feels far more reasonable, despite also being heavily biased.

Hank glances at the plate in the drying rack. And the glass on the table. The food he's ingested. Could… would an android resort to poisoning someone?

Hank's got nothing to work with, only the words he's being fed by one sole individual, that very same individual having knowledge of his home, his job, his personal life, his fucking history. It knows _everything_ about him. It's fast and strong as hell, it could probably outrun him, read his every move before he even thinks it, hunt him down and kill him without a breath of effort. It could murder him in his sleep.

Hank is suddenly very wary sitting at the kitchen table, disabled and recovering, slower than his fifty-three-year-old body is normally, horribly outmanned and unarmed.

The android is likely analyzing him, waiting for its chance to pounce, detecting the human's increase in stress and the tightening of his muscles. Hank's mouth is dry. Fuck, he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s scared.

He hasn’t been this afraid since Cole died, but this isn’t the kind of fear that comes with impending loss. It’s a blood chilling, spine-tingling, hallucination inducing trauma associated with the most primal human instinct of all: Survival.

 _You're a cop, for crying out loud,_ his brain shrieks. _Do something_.

“Connor, can I ask you something?” Hank asks shakily. The android turns immediately, brow creasing in worry. Jesus, it's probably written all over his face.

“Anything,” Connor nods, radiating kindness and empathy.

“There's a box stashed in my closet. It's in the back corner so you'll have to look,” Hank fabricates as he goes, putting faith into his ability to hold a straight face. He'll never pass a lying detector test but he hopes the android isn’t looking too deeply into it. “Can you get it for me?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Connor dries his hands on the towel and heads off down the hall. Hank hears the closet door and shoves himself to his feet, pushing his throbbing body as fast as he can to the front door. Sumo follows, eyes bright, and he seizes the dog's collar.

Phone and wallet in the basket, keys on the hook. He grabs both, ignores his jacket, and staggers outside into the cold November night.

It's raining, but it is freezing enough to snow. Hank leads Sumo across the lawn, unlocks the driver's door, and Sumo is behaved enough to hop right in. Hank shoves the keys into the ignition and twists hard, throwing the old standard into reverse, and stomps his foot onto the gas.

She hops the curb and he jerks the wheel to the left, switching gears, and glances out the driver's window.

The android is framed in the doorway, shock across its face. He hears it shout his name as it falls into a run.

Hank pushes the old car from zero to sixty, daring to break his old girl, racing off into the night with his breath rattling in his chest. He peers in the rear-view window.

Connor stands in the middle of the street, growing smaller and smaller, until Hank turns a corner and disappears entirely from sight.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New day, new chapter. Thank you sooo much for the positive feedback on the previous chapter. It means a lot to hear from you all.

The house is barren without Hank.

Unwashed dishes line the counter, lukewarm water fills the sink, and a tub of chicken breasts and seasoned wedges is on the table still needing packing. The closet lies open, a few boxes from the top fallen from when Connor straightened up abruptly at the noise of the car engine starting up outside. Wet prints mark the floor from his return indoors to sink onto the couch, head in his hands, systems in overdrive. Heat vents through the back of his neck.

Connor doesn’t know what he did wrong. He's confused and frightened, mostly for Hank's safety, but more for if it was something he did. Or said.

_“What the fuck would anyone be licking it for?”_

_“I could ask you the same question, Lieutenant.”_

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he groans. Had Hank assumed Connor was _coming_ _onto_ _him?_ He can see the ramifications of the words meant to tease, to illicit a reaction, but he can see the sexual connotation found in them, too.

And he's forgotten this isn’t the Lieutenant Anderson he knows, or that knows _him_ for that matter. This is a man who hates androids, with a passion, and likely fears them too.

Connor's thoughts keep going, rounding bends he never considered beforehand. Injured and vulnerable, and undeniably untrusting, he's fled for his life. Abandoned his home for the dark on a cold and wet evening, with a manually-operated car, with morphine in his system and a slower reaction time.

Connor's fans whir into action, his biocomponents heating. The percentages are grim, the numbers concerning. He needs to find Hank, convince him he can trust him, make him realize he is safe.

He wipes the saline from his eyes and straightens, locking the house on the way out and letting his primary functions swing into high gear. Connor's built for the purpose of hunting deviants, solving crimes, tracking down the impossible with a chance of zero to one. It's what he's made for.

He just never thought it would be for this.

 

 

Gavin is hunched over his desk half-asleep, working overtime on a case as he usually does, when Hank comes weaving in with Sumo at his side. The man's dressed in baggy pajama pants covered with tiny dogs and a _Detroit Lions_ shirt faded with age. He's got socks on, but they're wet and leaving prints behind him. He looks ready to keel over… and does.

Gavin catches him before his head can hit the edge of the desk. “Jeffery!” he bellows, supporting Hank long enough to ease him down in his own chair.

The police captain joins them in eight seconds flat, leaning over Hank with a worried expression. “Hank, the hell is going on?” he demands.

Sumo nudges Gavin's palm and he subconsciously pats the dog's head. Hank looks up wearily – he looks worse than drunk, there is no glaze to his blue eyes – and he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. Gavin can see the white-knuckled grip his fingers have in his pants.

“I want every filed report from the investigation with… with the android,” he says hoarsely. “Video recordings as well.”

“Hank, why? What's going on?” Fowler asks.

“I… I don’t trust androids, Jeffery. You know it, everyone knows it. One of them took my little boy away,” Hank is on the verge of tears. Gavin almost feels nervous watching the brazen old lieutenant cracking like glass. “I’m not sleeping in a house with one there.”

Fowler looks at Sumo, then at Gavin, then back at Hank. “Gavin, help him get settled in the break room. I’ll see to the reports and videos,” he says, then squeezes Hank's shoulder kindly. “You can stay here, Hank. It’s safe.”

Hank nods silently, eyes lowered to his lap, and Sumo whines. Gavin offers his hand to the lieutenant. It's the weirdest thing in the world, like it's an alternate universe, where Hank and Gavin get along.

Sumo follows them to the break room, where Gavin helps Hank to the couch and finds a blanket and travel pillow in the cupboard. Cops sometimes crash for an hour around the clock, and Gavin knows he's spent more than enough time in here, when he lets work overload him.

“Coffee?” he asks, tossing the old filter and preparing a fresh pot. Hank nods again, one hand on Sumo's head.

“Are you still on meds?”

“Yeah. Morphine to help me sleep,” he answers. “Gavin, what's your opinion of… of Connor?”

His laugh is purely reactionary. What's his _opinion?_ “Fuckin’ tin can waltzed in here and becomes a hero overnight. Took us years to climb to where we are, and he makes it look so fuckin’ easy,” he answers honestly, letting envy heat his words. “They made him so goddamn perfect. Perfect hair, perfect face…”

“Looks pretty goofy to me,” Hank says abruptly. Gavin pauses in pouring the mugs of coffee, looking over at the lieutenant. “He and that weird voice. Like he doesn’t know if he should be a machine or a person.”

“He is one of them, you know. A deviant,” Gavin returns the coffee pot to the dispenser and brings the mugs over, handing the one with the old red and white _Marvel_ slogan on it to Hank. He sits casually, sipping the coffee – black and strong, fuel for college kids and cops.

“So?”

“So, he's got feelings an’ shit now. Probably crying on your doorstep and frying his circuits,” Gavin shrugs. “I never liked him, but I knew the difference between real and fake anger in the tin can. I only made him angry once.”

“What happened?”

“Knocked me out cold. I was gonna put a bullet in his skull. He was dicking around in the evidence after being called off the case. _Shit_ ,” he scorches his tongue on the coffee. Should have added cold water. “I should've known better than to go up against an android.”

Fowler comes to the break room with a tablet in hand. “I have everything on here,” he says, handing it to Hank. “Reports are in file one, videos in file two. I’m headed home in an hour.”

“Thanks, Jeffrey,” Hank switches on the tablet and pulls up the reports.

“I’ll be at my desk. If you need something, just holler,” Gavin offers. Hank eyes him a little suspiciously but, in the end, nods gratefully.

Returning to his desk, Gavin hopes the files will be enough. He may not like the android much, but he knows just how devoted Connor is to him.

And how much Connor meant to Hank in turn.


	6. Chapter 6

The reports are fairly straightforward, detailed and beautifully translated, early drafts sketched out by Hank refined by a mind with a clear grasp of acute informative detail. Hank finds himself _enjoying_ reading the reports, a first in his books, though they end rather abruptly after their visitation to Elijah Kamski's house.

_Although we achieved no information on the location of Jericho or the whereabouts of the deviants, I am confident Lieutenant Anderson and I will find them, provided we are given the time and assets to progress the case._

Not Hank's words or style of writing, and it seems to deviate from the analytical points from before. It’s the very last sentence of the investigation before they were pulled off it, mainly because the FBI was taking over, and too much had occurred, transforming a simple series of crimes into a state-wide threat in a mere matter of _days._

The build up from spring past was nothing compared to the five days recorded in the reports. Had the deviant leader, Markus, been anymore aggressive, Hank is fairly sure it could have become an all out war. A war _no one_ would have survived.

Hank opens the video files next, and finds a large number of recordings. Some are distinctly labelled, all of various lengths, and the first one presents a hostile deviant on the edge of a roof with a little girl in his arms. The interrogator is inching closer and closer, trying to reason over the noise of a helicopter.

He watches to the bitter end, as Daniel takes the plunge with the girl, and the interrogator is forced to save her at the cost of his own life, falling into oblivion. It cuts out long before they hit the sidewalk.

The next video is in Jimmy's Bar, as Hank gets to see his own drunken face glaring up into the camera. The exchange makes him cringe and smile at the same time, as he hears himself respond with so much hostility, and yet the android takes it all and keeps pushing. He’s never fazed, except once.

_“D'you know where you can stick your instructions?”_

_“No. Where?”_

Hank outright _laughs_ , a raw and thunderous guffaw, seeing his own face screw up in disgust. It didn't just go over the robot's head, it fucking flew to _Mars_.

And proceeds to buy him a drink, like any proper gentleman. Hank would say his mother raised him well, if he had a mother.

From the Ortiz homicide to the interrogation, Hank watches in intrigue as the android detective utilizes its programming to the maximum. The height of pressurized fury it unleashes on the HR400 is vivid and powerful, and it confesses. Hank is impressed… until the deviant tries to self-destruct.

He sees himself enter the room, alarmed and perturbed, and the camera keeps switching between the blood-doused machine and him. Then, it moves to intervene, and a gun is pointed at its face.

Hank jolts as the bullet sends the screen black, and the video ends. He's clutching the tablet in a death grip. Connor… died? But that doesn’t make sense. What about before, when he fell from the rooftops with Daniel? He's been repaired and redeployed, right?

The next video tells him wrong.

Connor is analyzing his desk, studying everything with acute precision, and pauses on the achievements hanging off the side of Hank's desk. He sees the android's focused on the mention if his potential to become future commissioner – a dream lost the moment his life took a different path. Everything he could have been, gone, beginning with his beloved son.

The camera angle swings and Hank steps into the picture, pale with shock. And it gets worse from there, as he overhears himself assigned the case, his argument with Fowler, and then Connor's attempt to make the most of being partners.

A rookie, eager to please, determined to show off his skills. Machine or not, there's something in there just _aching_ to succeed. Every young cop feels it, when they start out, and Hank crushes it like a bug.

Hank honestly feels sorry for the kid as he shuts him out over and over, and feels regret at snapping at him.

Especially when the lead takes them to Ravendale, and out to the highway after the AX400.

Battered back and forth then smashed by a truck. Falling from heights after an incredible, death-defying run. The failures keep piling up, one after another, even as Connor lands each investigation flawlessly.

Connor finds Hank on one of his less than stellar nights, drunken into a coma during a game of Russian Roulette. He grunts, glad to see he hasn’t changed and is still the wallowing, miserable, middle-aged man with a suicidal ideation.

It goes from embarrassing, to amusing, to bloody hilarious, and back to embarrassing as Connor – poor Connor – has to figure shit out and watch his partner literally reach rock bottom and try to gain at least _some_ sensibility between puking his guts and half a bottle of Black Lamb up and howling like a wounded animal under the cold spray of the shower. What a masochistic prick.

Connor abandons him (probably a good call) to venture around the house, investigating the collector's albums and meeting Sumo – second time around and in better conditions – before looking at the gun on the floor and finding the photo on the table.

Cole.

Hank watches long, delicate fingers pick up the frame and analyze it. Birthday and date of death. The android hastily sets it down and wanders into the living room, looking at nothing in particular.

From all Hank's seen, Connor's never looked at nothing – with the exception of his own reflection in the mirror, the vain little shit – and it strikes Hank as odd. He seems… distracted almost.

The camera swings to the hallway and Hank comes into view, wearing a clean dress shirt with a retinal-burning print and a black coat, hair brushed out of his eyes and no more than a little worse for wear. Hank wonders what Connor's face looks like ‘cause he sees himself _smile_. A real damn smile.

The Eden Club gives Hank some insight based on his own reactions as it plays out. What he must have thought equal to a teenage boy with risqué magazines stashed under his bed, was completely wrong. He sees an investigator, doing his job, as amusing as it looks on the surface.

They find the blue-haired Traci in hiding with her lover, and Connor just about gets his head torn off when they make a run for it. Hank sees Connor grab the gun, pursue, and sees it line up with the ginger-haired Traci halfway up the fence.

His stomach drops, guessing what comes next, when the unexpected happens.

The gun lowers, and the girls take off into the night. Hank is profoundly surprised at the distinct change of heart.

He sets the tablet aside, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He's in pain and the coffee isn't helping. He has to piss and Sumo is drooling on the floor, snoring like a steam engine. Shedding the blanket, he straightens slowly, letting his muscles unwind gingerly before moving too quick.

The walk to and from the latrine is uneventful, and he ponders everything he's seen so far. Mostly failures, a lot of dying and resurrecting, and enough of himself to swear he isn’t vain without a moment's hesitation. The world through Connor's eyes is fast-paced, driven and full of challenges, small in accomplishments but exciting nonetheless. Hank is at the center of it, serving as a focus, a center to which he responds and acts for.

Hank wonders, distantly as he wraps the blanket around his shoulders and notes the last remaining videos, if it would be a good idea to go home. The android isn’t threatening, and seems to hang off every word from the lieutenant. For a machine, he's pretty loyal.

Then he sees a hunched figure on a bench looking out at Ambassador Bridge, the lights of Windsor across the way. The figure is drinking and quiet, snowflakes in his silver hair.

The conversation touches on concepts Hank doesn’t want to hear. It swings to the investigation, their lack of progress, the mention of an rA9, and finally back to the Eden Club gynoids.

And then, Hank watches it border on hostile, as he pressures Connor, the suspicion clear in his drunk glare.

_“I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner, your buddy to drink with… or just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.”_

It gets darker, and tenser, and the deepest layers of trust are exposed and peeled back when Hank holds his revolver to Connor's head. The malignant ire is thick enough to feel radiating from the tablet's screen.

_“But are you afraid to die, Connor?”_

An icon blips in the corner of the screen, a warning for overheating biocomponents as a result of increasing stress levels. Hank knows the answer before it's even spoken. _Yes._

Hank doesn’t know how to feel, only that he needs to have a long talk with the android in question. He's seen half of it, knows only a quarter of what went on in the time he's forgotten. There's still so much.

But for now, his eyelids are heavy and his body aches, and all he wants is to sleep. He lies down on the couch, grateful it's at least somewhat comfortable, and closes his eyes.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Hank stirs awake to a cold nose poking him insistently. He's cold, muscles stiff and joints tight, and he's confused about why on god's green earth he's in the police break room. Sumo whines, cocking his head to one side.

“Oh, Jesus,” Hank groans, hoisting upright, hearing bones pop. He can feel every damaged part of his body _screaming_ and knows he should take painkillers, but they're at home on the bedside table.

Beside him lies his wallet and keys, and the tablet. Oh, that's right. He was reading over the reports last night. Stuff he already knew. For a second, Hank didn’t remember _why_ he'd come to the station to review what he already knew.

“Sumo, the hell's going on?” he mumbles, clipping on the dog's leash to take him outside to the parking lot.

It’s a little after dawn, the sun a warm glow, and Hank shivers as the cold quickly settles in. The thin blanket over his pajamas isn’t the best outerwear, especially when he sees the two inches of snow covering every surface like fluffy frosting. Dubiously looking at the toes of his socks, Hank takes a cautious step outside.

“ _Oooh_ that's fucking freezing.” He hobbles a little, leading Sumo to a corner against the building where the snow is lighter. His socks are wet, the icy chill seeping between his toes.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Hank jumps a little, looking behind him to see Chris smiling at him confusedly. The officer takes in his attire, lack of shoes, and Sumo. “Rough night? Let me guess: Connor's mothering got to be too much?”

Hank frowns.

“Or did he throw you out?” Chris laughs. “I didn’t think he had the heart. Wouldn’t make sense after how excited he was when the doctors said they were releasing you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, man. He was pestering us for days, wanting our advice on looking after you, trying to figure out ways to joggle your memory... God, don’t let him know I’ve told you this.”

Hank is taken aback. More than that, he feels _awful_. Has he been entirely wrong about the android? Does he mean _that much_ to Connor?

There is only one way to find out.

“Eh, Chris, do me a favour and thank Fowler for letting me stay the night. And pass it on to Gavin, too, while you're at it,” he staggers across the parking lot, every step like walking on knives.

As he coaxes the old girl's engine to life, he thinks about everything from the day before. The clean house, the full fridge, the planned dinner, Sumo in good health, the paid bills. And Connor, eagerly waiting for him to come home, willing to be there step by step.

The photo Connor gave him as a gift swims to the forefront of his thoughts. Hugging the android to his side, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of others, smiles on both their faces. A moment captured by chance. The promise they are friends, devoted and undeniably loyal.

Sumo snuffles at his ear, making him smile. “C'mon, boy. We're going home.”

 

 

By the time he makes it to Michigan Drive, Hank is both physically and mentally exhausted. He leaves the car parked at the end of the walkway, letting Sumo lead the way to the front door.

The house is quiet when he enters.

“Connor?” he calls, hanging up his keys and depositing his wallet in the basket. No android makes itself known. He must be out.

 _Looking for me,_ Hank thinks, opening a can of food for Sumo and replacing the water at the sink. There are still dishes on the counter, and he forces himself to wash them, leaning against the countertop as it becomes more than he expected.

Kitchen tidied to his liking, Hank strips and hits the shower, spending a solid half hour under the hot spray. It feels fucking amazing and he doesn't care less about the water bill. It isn’t like he's been home to use it.

He rifles around in his closet for a minute, finding his coziest sweatpants and a shirt with Snoopy on it, bundles into his housecoat, and pops a few painkillers. He settles on the couch and turns on the TV to watch the last hour of some old spy flick.

 

 

Chicken Feed, the police station, the park… Connor checks them all, travelling on foot across a significantly large portion of Detroit. He lingers at the park the longest, dealing with the truckload of emotions he as a deviant has to handle now.

He's concerned, he's scared, and he's disappointed in himself for letting this happen. Hank, his best friend, his goddamn _world_. Connor doesn’t know what to do except keep searching and tell himself over and over again it'll be alright.

He keeps picturing the lieutenant dead in a car accident, from falling asleep behind the wheel to encountering a driver over the alcohol limit. He can visualize the broken glass, the crunched metal, the blood… so much blood. The human body is only able to withstand so much impact. Will it have been a quick death, sudden and painless? Or slow, drawn out and agonizing, with Hank alive for hours before mercy decides to offer its touch?

Connor forces himself to distance himself, to shut it out. It would be easier if he were a machine, if he didn’t have to feel…

The taste of fear and the touch of snow only reminds him of Amanda and the horrific revelation she _intended_ for everything to happen as it did. It took everything to escape her clutches, to abandon his programming. It took even more to hold the gun to his head and hold his finger on the trigger.

It was a decision he, not for the first time, was glad he didn’t have to make.

Connor settles on the bench, watching the sun rise, and feels his tear ducts activating in response to his biocomponents rushing to keep up with his energy output.

Crying, a new concept. In humans, it's an overwhelming stress that forces tears to flow, the body physically trying to expel the built up tension and relax the body. It isn’t so different for androids.

Snowflakes settle in his hair, a thin dusting of white, and he stays a little longer, the sun warm on his face. It's peaceful here but in a lonely way, the memory of a boy he never knew laughing in playful abandon with a father and a good man, his career solid and his family's future brighter than the sparkle of sunlight on the river.

Gone, so easily.

Connor knows Hank is still a good man, and a damn good cop. Hard to keep down, harder to back into a corner and expect to admit defeat. Even in his darkest hours, something kept him alive.

If anyone can pull through twice, it's him.

 

 

Noon strikes on the clock, and the soft knock on the door rouses Hank from his dozing. It takes him a few moments to get up from the couch, but he does, yawning deeply, and opens the door.

It's Connor.

His hand rests on the handle, suddenly tense with uncertainty. The android looks just as uncomfortable. Neither of them want to speak or be the one to break the silence.

“I know you don’t trust me,” Connor begins, winding his hands together. “And you have every reason to feel that way, but I assure you… everything I say or do is in your best interest. You are my partner and my friend,” his brown eyes soften, meeting Hank's bravely. “And I won't abandon you and leave you to go through this alone.”

Hank thinks back to the videos, specifically the night Connor crashed through his window to make sure he was alright. Stupid him, worthless him, a drunkard and a suicidal idiot unable to get past his son's death. A pathetic lowlife incapable of looking after himself and there was Connor, easy smiles and confident walk, in his living room like he belonged there.

Connor is waiting, patiently, and Hank can see the snowflakes glistening in his thick hair. There's a slight curl to the ends when it's wet, something he's never noticed before.

Hank pauses, questioning his train of thought. Of _course_ he wouldn’t notice.

And yet… those warm brown eyes are still so very familiar. Inquisitive and fond. He knows them from memory. He doesn't understand how, or why. He just _does_.

“Connor?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

The inert terror that flashes across his face is heartbreaking. He thinks he's going to be told to leave. To think that Connor would really _believe_ that hurts a little but, more so, that he would obey without a second glance is enough to erase all of Hank's deepest fears.

“C'mere, son.”

Pulling the android by the shoulder over the doorstop, Hank gathers him close. Connor's arms tighten around his sides, and he buries his face in the soft old housecoat.

A winter's wind billows into the house, her fingertips as biting as a rose's thorns, but Hank has never felt so warm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this little story. I loved hearing from you. I'll be continuing more writing soon! Love to you all.


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